


Voracious

by beetl



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Animal Death, Birds, Blood, Brief Vomiting, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21844084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetl/pseuds/beetl
Summary: A bird hits the window. Jon experiences The Flesh's thrall.Requested as what was probably a joke, the fic is serious. All about the tag "Dead Dove: Do Not Eat"(Heed tags + beginning notes for warnings)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51
Collections: Rusty Kink





	Voracious

**Author's Note:**

> HEY PLEASE READ!!!
> 
> this is a kink meme fill but a thankfully nonsexual one. HOWEVER! it deals with animal death (birds), mind control by the flesh (in a series-typical way) and graphic descriptions of eating a bird. please don't read if that will make you upset!!

It starts one day, with a bang.

Quite literally too. One second, Jon is recording a statement, allowing the feeling of Seeing to take over his mind. He’d just started, the words “Statement of Zachary White, regarding.... an unusual fascination with birds” have barely left his lips before the sound jolts him out of it. The energy of the statement giver feels nervous at the start. It feels like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. And then, a _thud_ comes from the window, and Jon sees a cloud of small feathers fall past the glass.

He reaches over to pause the tape recorder set on his desk. It doesn't. Jon hums in the back of his throat at this but makes his way over to the window regardless. He looks at the small, fragile corpse sitting below his office windowpane. The window was high up, and this level of the Institute is set slightly into the ground. It brings the window to about chest height for most, and a bit below the shoulders for Jon. 

The dove is dead. He doesn’t need to See to find that out, yet for some strange reason, Jon unlocks the inner anti-theft bars. Why someone would steal anything from the Institute, Jon doesn’t know. The computers still run ‘95, and Object Storage requires a keycard. After moving them aside, pushes the lower window open. Reaching out, he holds the little thing in his hands, cradling it between them. Something in his head says _“Hey! This is weird!”_ but the feeling in Jon’s mind that he has to, he needs to hold this bird overrides it. He runs a thumb over its soft chest. No heartbeat, just like he thought. 

Suddenly, his mind is overcome with vivid imagery. Soft white meat, torn apart to reveal the smallest, tiniest rib cage. Feathers flying as a fox devours a stolen hen. A hunter tearing open the breast of what was once a goose. He can smell it, the coppery tang of blood, and can hear the sounds of tearing flesh. Jon realizes, amidst this, that he’s soaked with sweat, his heart thumping hard in his chest. It feels not unlike a bird, trapped there. Only when he feels something wet drop onto his hand does he notice that he’s drooling.

He wipes a spot of drool from his lower lip. One hand still holding the bird, he quickly deposits the carcass back outside of the window before redoing the bars. Jon goes quickly to wash his hands. He doesn’t want the avian flu.

The cold water serves to calm him a bit. He drinks from the tap, something he would never be caught dead doing normally, but he gives himself a pass this time. Jon has never been a vegetarian, but the thoughts he experienced in his office, he knows they are not his own. They’re too savage. Too wild, clouding his mind like a thick fog. Leaving no room for anything but the need to Eat. This thought makes him scrub at his hands a bit harder, short fingernails raking across his palms. He does not need Meat. He had a nice breakfast this morning. He is not hungry. He does not need to listen to The Flesh. Managing slowly to soothe his mind, Jon splashes water on his face before blotting it off with a paper towel and heading back to his office.

He’s only a quarter through recording when the sweating hits again. He feels the armpits of his nice dress shirt, cool and damp against his skin (and oh, he just bought this one, didn’t he.) Jon dabs at them with a tissue from his desk, continuing the statement. But then Zachary begins to describe how lovely the birds outside his flat looked, how their soft plumage felt in his hands, and how it felt in his teeth. Jon gags. Throwing his hands over his mouth, he looks over to his trash bin, but his nausea quickly subsides, and it’s replaced with hunger.

Jon doesn’t feel like he’s in his own body right now. He feels weak, like a puppet on a string, dancing along to the movements of a greater being. He fumbles at the bar closure, momentarily regaining a rational thought, but it’s quickly swept away in the tidal wave of his consciousness, screaming for Meat. He knows that he needs it. Just a bite, barely anything at all. Just a little one wouldn’t hurt. Right? The window is slowly pushed upwards, and Jon takes the body in his hands again. No longer nearly as soft due to rigor mortis setting in, and it leaves the bird stiff and still. The parts of him that are still Jon Sims push back, screaming at him to put the bird down, anything other than what he’s about to do. But instead, his hands, his treacherous, horrible hands, they raise the small body to his lips. He can feel the downy feathers brush against his lips. But the animalistic impulses ruling his brain allow his jaw to drop and rip and tear. Tears sting at Jon’s eyes as he tears away the meat from the breastbone, skin and all. Feathers are in his teeth, and it’s messy and disgusting. Blood stains his face, dripping down off his chin as he tears further into the flesh. He expected the meat to be white, like chicken, but instead it’s almost impossibly dark, oozing whatever is left of the blood inside. 

It feels like an eternity that he stays there, hunched over and wild on the cold floor. Blood splatters on the wooden boards and the rational, screaming part of Jon’s mind thinks about how hard it will be to clean all of this up. Finally, blessedly, Jon comes back to himself. The bites stop, small bones and feathers and flesh are dropped immediately from his hands onto the floor. They land with a wet squelch. His shirt already ruined, Jon wipes his bloodied hands on it in an attempt to clean them up, even just a bit. He falls from his crouching position and over onto his side as he scrambles away from the mess. 

He manages to get over to his bin before he retches and his stomach evacuates its contents into the plastic lining. For once, Jon is grateful that his office is so small. Jon hangs his head over the bin, strings of drool and vomit still hanging from his mouth. How he wishes that he could quit this horrible nightmare of a job. He gathers what’s left in his mouth and spits it into the bin. He needs to clean this up before any of the assistants decide to come in without knocking. 

-

Elias sits at his desk, his eyes closed. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, and his brow is heavily creased.

“I don’t know what I expected.”

Then, he dials the number for the janitorial staff. When a gruff voice picks up on the other end, Elias requests that they add bleach the first-floor office’s mopping solution.

**Author's Note:**

> @ohworm_ on twitter lol


End file.
